Editor’s Note: This article is part of our Coulees to Muskeg – A Saskatchewan Environmental History series. This series is a partnership between NiCHE and the Saskatchewan History & Folklore Society (SHFS). All articles in the series appear on the NiCHE website and are published in SHFS’s Folklore magazine.
It’s funny how the memories come back when I go over the farm record book. The notations of rainfall and field operations are like a shorthand code, unlocking stories from past years. I didn’t record snowfall during the winter, and I can’t remember anything unusual about the spring of 1988. I guess I was as optimistic about this year as any before, and the last three had been good, with plenty of rain and bumper crops. Harvest had been hampered by wet weather, but yields were exceptional, and I had almost forgotten the dry conditions of 1984.
Looking back on it now, the first omen was the dry fall of 1987. The crop that year had been good; I even made about 150 bales of second-cut alfalfa hay in late September and early October. But I remember starting to break the hay field on Section 4 and finding the surface so hard that the cultivator spikes would not go into the ground. I worked into the night, undecided about whether to try to go on and finish the whole field.
I wanted to break this alfalfa and seed the land to wheat next spring; at least one working in the fall would open the surface for spring runoff to reach the parched subsoil. I knew that a freshly cultivated hay field needed above normal moisture to grow a decent cereal crop. That night, the snow fell, and the frost came down hard. That put an end to my deliberations, and I settled in for the winter. Depending on conditions, I would get the field broken and cultivated well enough to seed next spring. It wasn’t that unusual to seed wheat as late as June.
April 12th – started spiking alfalfa field on #4. 2nd spiking operation finished Apr. 29.
April 30th – over 1″ of rain.
These are the first entries for 1988. There was just enough moisture from a less-than-promising spring melt to start breaking the hayfield; that rain at the end of the month must have reassured me about the future. It’s strange how that memory is completely gone. But I do remember selling hay off that field, loading the semi-trailer in the rain that fell two weeks later, on the 14th of May, and the truck getting stuck before the driver could get out to the road.
“How I love rain. I thought of the moisture wetting the soil down one, two, three inches and more, softening it for the next cultivation, putting down water for the wheat that I was going to plant.”
I remember hooking the chain from my tractor to the truck, getting soaked in the rain that washed the new shoots of grass and the budding leaves in the trees. How I love rain. I thought of the moisture wetting the soil down one, two, three inches and more, softening it for the next cultivation, putting down water for the wheat that I was going to plant. .65″ recorded in the book. It was enough to look forward to more, and for a few days, I revelled in the aftermath. Everything looked cleaner and brighter, the sun shone strongly on the growth of spring, and I went back to work. But it was the last measurable rainfall for almost two months.
Meanwhile, I seeded the other fields first; the stubborn alfalfa stubble required more and more work to break up the fibrous turf and make a seed-bed fit for wheat. I deep tilled with spikes, then with wide-winged sweeps, and harrowed over and over. To break down the clods, I turned the soil over with a discer and harrowed again. And always there were more rocks to be picked, finally loosened after all those years under the hay. I didn’t mind the work, though; I knew that a newly broken hayfield could produce a bumper crop of wheat if it rained.
Then the heat came, sooner than usual but not unheard of. The dryness prevented quick regrowth of the alfalfa plants, and each tilling improved the field’s tilth. However, the dry conditions were less than adequate for organic matter decomposition, and the coolness of the moisture line sank deeper and deeper beneath the surface. As it got later and later, I knew that if there was to be any crop on this field, it would depend on substantial rainfall after seeding.
June 3, 4, & 5—62 acres of wheat seeded on #4. Fertilized with 12-51-0 at about 75 lbs./acre. 6 acres of oats seeded.
Still no hint of what was to come. But I remember those three days. The heat was now like a mid-summer wave—thirty degrees Celsius. The soil was powder. I got off the tractor and checked the seed placement. It would never even germinate without rain. Shallow or deep, there was no moisture for growth. But there was no turning back now.
Every hour, I had to get out of the tractor cab and fill the seed-rite with wheat and fertilizer. By the time the chore was finished, sweat was running; over and over again, I levelled the red wheat with my hands as it poured from the hydraulic drill-fill, then slugged the pails of fertilizer up from the half-ton’s box; I wondered if it was going to be worth it. Slowly, the field got smaller and smaller until it was finished. Now I had done all that I could. Surely the rain would come, I thought. But the heat gave me doubts as I searched the blue sky for whisps of cloud and tried to will them together into thunderheads.
The next real rain didn’t come until over a month later on July 6: .6″. How much could it still help? Bare patches all over the fields testified to kernels of seed that hadn’t yet started to grow. Since seeding there had been two showers—.15″ and .1″ – not nearly enough to penetrate through the parched soil and down to subsoil moisture that was now feet, not inches, below the surface.
A lot of that summer seems to be totally gone, as if my brain blocked out the experience. Driving out to the fields in the half-ton to check the crops is practically a tradition. This year, I remember the hesitation at making those trips and the forlorn hope that what I found each time would be better than before. But it never was. I figured the diminished returns in my head each time. I didn’t need to work it out on paper or use a calculator to keep track. Thousands of bushels less of wheat meant thousands of dollars less. I began to worry about making enough money just to pay urgent bills and get by until next year. The most frustrating thing was that nothing I could do now would make a difference, short of getting a well-paying job off the farm. But the work still remained, whether the hay yielded one ton or two per acre, whether the wheat would run forty bushels per acre or ten, the fields still had to be run over. The tractors didn’t burn less fuel because the crops were poor.
Never before had I studied the demise of a crop, as it withered away day after day and week after week. And I clung to the hope for a late rain like faith in a miracle, even long after it could make a difference. The first stage to watch for is the boot or shot-blade, the swelling of the stem containing the embryo of the head. I could expect the plant to double in height yet, but when the boot was forming at a foot or less, the prospect for the mature stand was poor. At a certain point, the die was cast.
An inch and a half of rain on August 16th came too late. The wheat fields were bleak streaks of rows that couldn’t shade the ground beneath. I began to worry about harvesting a crop so thin that the swather wouldn’t collect enough to form a windrow the combine could pick up. As the summer drew to a close, I knew that this year would be one to forget.
Sometimes walking in the fields took me close to despair. How little all I did mattered in the end. I had wished that I could write the rest of the season off and flash-forward, like in the movies, to the next spring and begin again.
But each day had to be lived. I had to look for something to compensate for the disappointment. I remember going for a horseback ride, out across the home quarter, into the field of oats I had, the best-looking crop of the lot. When I could see that it would lay a swath and yield accordingly, that oats field became the saving grace of the season. The short time it took to harvest was the only time worth remembering.
I don’t have any entries in my record book for the 1988 harvest. There wasn’t much to record. The oats field at home and the 6 acres on Section #4 produced surprisingly well. The wheat was depressing from beginning to end. I raced across the fields with the swather and then the combine as fast as I could to get it over with. 10 to 12 bushels an acre doesn’t pour into the hopper. I borrowed a grain truck and was able to combine for hours before filling it. The combine pickup couldn’t even lift a good deal of the short wheat, which had fallen through the stubble flat onto the ground.
It’s funny how, as a farmer, one often must make the best of a poor situation, and how good one gets at doing it. Whatever there was for a crop, at least I was able to harvest. True enough, the weather held off long enough to get the grain off the field. I don’t remember any major breakdowns. It soon was over.
Just as the wheat plants and the trees, the weeds and the hayfields, and all of Nature had adapted to the drought, so too did I. This summer, I had been humbled before the power of sun and wind. Watching the skies for clouds, analyzing the thunderheads that never emptied over my land, and walking through the blazing heat of long days without relief, hardened my skin. It did no good to rant and rave.
I remember telling myself to concentrate on the positive, to try to enjoy the sunny days and the warm temperatures. But it wasn’t easy to relax on the browning lawn, sipping on beer and soaking up the sun. I used to get angry with the weather forecasts on the radio or the television, but it didn’t matter. It only takes a drought to clearly set a farmer apart from the rest of society. The weather and the land never let us forget how inextricably bound we are to the forces of Nature and subject to her vagaries. Everybody seemed to be enjoying the summer. Long after it was news to my neighbours or me, the drought was finally covered. The uncomfortable scorching days of summer at last meant something more than blistered skin and endless evenings just great for barbecuing.
They meant dreams of spring and the months of work going down the tubes. They meant the weathered faces of farmers under peaked hats, glumly predicting just how poor the harvest could be. They meant the worst of those predictions coming true.
The stubble was cold now. The wind blew out of the north, and flakes of snow raced out of the sky, skimming over the cut stems still looking like they were thirsty. The wheat had done its best too and now could rest, warming to a blanket of white that wrapped it back to the soil, clinging to its cold roots. I walked across the field, the stubble snapping under my boots.
The winds would bring winter again, then spring weather, and hope for a better year. What did it mean, this drought of 1988? Well, next year didn’t look as rosy as the last. Even though I couldn’t believe two years in a row could be that dry, I could imagine the consequences. I had survived the misfortunes of this year and was ready to go on. I would find the hope to carry me through the winter and the seed to plant another crop. By April, I would be ready to start over again, to trust in the land, in the work as noble as any other, growing food for the world. I would plan a little more than usual for the worst-case scenario, and it was a good thing I did, too. As I recall, 1989 turned out little better than the drought of ’88.
Yes, another terrible year lay ahead, which led me to make a life-changing decision at the beginning of 1990. This would be a turning point, the long road to a new career and a new life as a teacher, beginning during those winter months when I researched and began my university education.
I continued farming while we slowly converted assets, specifically selling our cow-calf beef herd over the next couple of years, and then two quarters of farmland, while at the same time taking on new debt to finance my university education. I continued to struggle with the weather and the other vagaries of farming, but with less stress over time, and never again with the all-consuming dependency I had felt for the almost twenty years of our farming lives.
This story, I think, resonates with the passion of connection I still feel for the land and the natural environment. My sense of place in the natural order of things has matured and mellowed over the years, but I am grateful to still be here, living on this land of my heritage, our acreage just a remnant but important testament to the dreams of my grandparents, who homesteaded here over a hundred years ago.
